fly up to the surface and just start again
by arromanches
Summary: Roe/Renée, modern-day France, reincarnation-ish AU. Complete for now but possible expansion to follow.
1. weight of living

i.

He had landed under pearl-grey skies in Paris, the two-hour train ride to the west a quiet mix of reading, sleeping, and piano music (Clair de Lune, mostly) piped through headphones at barely audible levels. Absentmindedly thumbing through the textured pages of his paperback, he couldn't bring his mind down from the clouds it seemed to be hovering in, no matter how hard he tried.

Stepping off the platform at Caen, his throat involuntary tightens, all of his nerves suddenly and briefly shot with pain. On the train he left behind the appearance of tranquility, as he drags his beat-up luggage behind him to the curb on the outside of the station.

At twenty years of age, Eugene Roe seems much older, not in his face but in the way he carries himself. His eyes speak of a past that manifested itself in his bones, in his movements, and in a certain heaviness of his entire body, like he is permanently bolted to the ground beneath him. It makes a sort of sense though, to those that know Gene; the deaths of his parents in a car accident halfway through his second year of university, pre-med, left him shattered, knocked completely off his center. This was not the first holiday he'd spent struggling to fill in the outlines he could almost see of them at the Christmas table, but it was the first during which he'd resumed the tradition of visiting his grandparents in Normandy in the winter.

Their apartment was too far to walk, even in warmer weather, and neither Agnes nor Andre could still drive. In the cab that speeds him through the center of the city Gene's mind wanders inexplicably back to the dreams he has been having the past few weeks. Saturated yet blurred shadows of men, bloody, dirty, their screams heard as though through an earful of water. He moved in slow-motion, hands and feet magnetized to invisible positions of experience and care. It doesn't make sense to him that he would have nightmares of emergency rooms, only being a student of medicine and not yet a practitioner, or of wartime, having never served or endured similar trauma. His parents' deaths, which occurred when he was away at school, seemed to have taken place on a separate astral plane entirely. The images of men burned in his memory, he can't shake these dream-world feelings of numbness. A bone-rattling chill, also from these nightmares, night-terrors even, fused together with his grief and left an icy shadow over him. When Gene finally arrives at the apartment at 14 Rue Saint Martin he slowly makes his way up the steps, smiling at the doorway for his beloved grandparents, but feeling in his heart that melting any piece of this strange kind of armor would be near to impossible.


	2. little prayer

ii.

"I told you Maman, I'll be fine." She speaks calmly into the sleek silver phone at her ear, her voice vulnerable yet firm. The gadget is what Renée hesitates to label a measure of mollification, because she'd needed no consolation (or even convincing) when it came to her parents' divorce, but the faint annoyance she felt with herself was growing stronger every time she used it. She is trying her best to be understanding of her mother, as it is the first holiday she's spending without both or one of her parents. But the fact that Emmanuelle was trying to make her feel guilty for leaving, for moving away from Bruges and from an empty house that still held echoed screams buried in now-deafening silence, was leaving her steady hands nearly shaking with anger. Renée's animosity towards her parents ebbs and flows like the sea. She can see the cold waves coming in, white-capped and blue, and hangs up before the crash of waves on shore. The sound reverberates in the space around her head, leaving her chest hollow.

The sheer amount of effort she'd put into the move, far eclipsing any of her parents' minimal support, was the only proof needed of Renée's determination and focus. Getting her records straight at school in Belgium and transferring to the Université de Caen with the full backing of her professors, not even counting packing her possessions and getting them to France, to her best friend Augusta's apartment, was a task that a few months ago seemed as tall as a mountain. Now that it is done, Renée wishes desperately to feel like she can breathe deeply again. She has so much to be happy for: being out of the house that held so much anger in its walls, moving in with a friend that knew her better than anyone else, the continuation of her studies, and the intertwined joy and pain of growing up, of exploration. But she feels something holding her back. It isn't homesickness or fear, or even mere trepidation. It is something she can't put her finger on, and that is what rattles her confidence more than anything.

As she hauls her bags up to the apartment, she takes a deep breath. Letting her new atmosphere wash over her seems like the best way to try and shake this nervous energy. The smell of Augusta's cooking, a rich, warming stew, greets her at the door, along with hugs and cheek kisses and more hugs. Over dinner, they discuss their plans for the next few months. Augusta is twenty-three, four years older than Renée, and works as an EMT in the city. Renée has only looked as far as finishing school in Caen, but she knows for a fact that she won't go back to Belgium.

As she drifts off to sleep that night, she feels hopeful. This weight on her chest could be lifted here. She is home.


	3. prospekt's march

iii.

The dreams continue, and become more vivid. He wakes up thrashing and throwing off the sheets, covered in a cold sweat. In the morning Gene is so drained that all he can do is drink some coffee in a feeble attempt to restore some energy, and then crash again for another few hours. His grandparents attribute some of this behavior to the stress of his studies, but are starting to worry.

During the daylight hours his mind becomes invaded by names, ones he had heard shouted, whispered, screamed, and whimpered, ones he feels in the deepest parts of himself, under his ribcage. These names are seemingly completely foreign to him, but he feels as though recognition is somewhere within his bones, twined in his synapses, in a language he can'' decipher.

One face is the slightest bit clearer than the others', though. A girl, not much younger than he, with blue eyes and dark blonde hair, blood staining her hands and caking under her fingernails. Her mouth is pressed together in the picture of resolute duty. She is beautiful even among the horrors that surround her.

Sitting at the table in the soft light of the winter morning, the chill coming off of the window panes, Gene knows a change has to be made. Something to shake these nightmares.

_What if there's really something wrong with me? _He thought. _They always say, when you're a kid, that if a dream happens more than three times it'll come true. Maybe there's a reason this is all happening._

It sounds ridiculous. He knows it does. He shakes his head as though it were that easy to let these dreams fall off of him that way. His thoughts keep returning to the nurse.


	4. music for a nurse

iv.

She wakes with a breathless, gasping start. It all felt so real, so incredibly, horrifyingly lucid, that when Renée opens her eyes she doesn't quite believe she's away from it all. The only sound she can hear is that of her shaking fingers rapping against the bedside table as she fumbles for the light, bringing her back to consciousness.

Lying breathless on the damp sheets, she feels completely shattered. She stumbles to the bathroom for water, and returns to sit on the bed with her back to the wall, closing her eyes so tightly it hurts.

_A church made of stones. Blood-stained pews. Numbing cold._

_Standing over a dying man and probing her hands through his bleeding stomach, searching for something she can't remember now. Locking eyes with a boy just as hopeless and hoping as she. Nearly crying when she sees him throw down his hands in anger, but finding only soreness behind her eyes. _

_Carrying on quickly and methodically, despite the pain that washes over her, despite the walls of suffering. _

She wishes desperately to see the boy's face more clearly, but the imprint evaporates quickly in the pale light of her bedside lamp. His eyes however, a blue so dark she nearly mistakes it for black, are burned into her memory. They're the color of the night sky, the same as what's outside her bedroom window, dotted with stars.

It is some time before she is able to fall asleep again.


	5. first floor people

v.

The walls of the apartment feel as though they're closing in on him. Gene gets his coat and forces himself out of the apartment, hoping that the cold air will revive him. It's a relief to hear voices other than the ones inside his head.

He walks many blocks before stopping at a small café, where the tables and chairs are wrought iron, the walls covered in shelves of books and old teapots. A counter sits at one end and a sofa and table set are in the middle.

_One foot in front of the other._ His eyes trail the ground as he runs a hand through his short, dark hair.

_Just take a deep breath. Coffee, black, thank you._

As he takes a cardboard holder for the cup he turns to face the door, and stops so suddenly that the impact rocks him back on his heels. If the expression "struck by lightning" ever had a practical application, this would be it, he thinks. Everything feels as though it's in slow motion


	6. atlas hands

vi.

The breath has been knocked out of her, but she's not sure if the effect is visible.

Her legs don't feel completely sturdy anymore, her heart beating in double-time. Suddenly it's a hundred degrees inside this café.

She goes and sinks into a chair by the wall, robotically picking up a paper and scanning the headlines in hopes of distracting herself, absorbing nothing. Telling herself she's really just imaging things, that he's just a stranger. She's projecting things that aren't, that can't, possibly be the truth.

She watches as he gets sugar from the station at the far wall, no milk, and stirs the drink for much longer than he needs to.

_Slow down, dear heart, please. Slow down. _

By some miracle he starts to walk up to her, leaving his coffee, and her mouth goes dry. It's barely a comfort that he looks as scared as she does.

There are several moments of pulsating silence. Finally, he speaks.

"_I-I do not mean to be- forward- with you, but you- you look in- incredibly familiar to me."_

His French is so broken and so sincere that the grip Renée's hands hold on the chair's arms loosens the slightest amount.

"I- I could say the same thing to you."

He looks relieved that she has switched to English.

"It- it sounds ridiculous, I know." His natural accent is Southern, Cajun in fact. His upbringing on the bayou has made him predisposed toward picking up the loose vowels and lilting cadence of the language. But his nervousness overshadows any such skills he may possess.

Renée pauses, swallows. She imagines she must look terrified. His eyes are dark and searching.

"No, I- I don't believe it does." Deep breath. "Would- would you mind having this conversation outside? If that is all right with you?" Her lips are dry and her heart is pounding.

She doesn't want other people around, at least not in such a quiet place. Outside will be much better, she thinks, where the words can escape into swirling air. Where they can walk together and others will hear them only in passing.

He nods. Wordlessly, they both make their way out the door. Something feels as though it is burning inside her. Gene is on autopilot, his features tense.

"I- I've been having dreams," she says. She hopes desperately that she has started at the right place. Maybe she should have started with her name, something simple, not something that makes her feel like she's gone mad. "Of- of war. Of being in a church, tending to wounded men. I am studying to be a nurse, but it makes no sense to me because I've never been in a situation like that before, or read of one, or even seen one on television. The images are so vivid. The scariest part about it though, is that I've been having this dream for many nights in a row."

Gene nods again, and his expression has softened to something resembling helplessness, a shadow of it almost. "I've been having the same dreams."

"And in these dreams, there's always a medic opposite me, helping me. But I can never see his face very clearly when I wake up."

He looks at the ground, his voice quiet and disbelieving. "There's always a nurse in mine."

By now they have both stopped and are facing each other. Darkest blue meeting soft sky.

"What is your name?" He asks, and when she pauses and says it he finds his voice beginning at the exact same point, saying it with her. "Renée."

"Gene," she breathes. She doesn't know it until she says it, but it escapes her lips as though with a mind of its own, and his eyes widen. A sea of silence opens up between them, and it consumes several long seconds before Renée is able to speak.

"This- this is crazy," she murmurs, staring at her boots in disbelief. "I don't know you, I've never even seen you before today, and now? Wh-…" She looks up at him again, trailing off, eyes silently searching for answers she knows she won't find. She turns and starts walking forward again, and Gene follows.

"It- it isn't a coincidence that we're both feeling like this," he says, "that we both know each other's names, that we've been having the same dreams." He looks at her face in profile as she walks, the curve of lips and her chin, her mouth pressed together just as he remembered.

"I don't know." She glances at the ground, at the damp, cool pavement and the small puddles around the cracks. "I feel crazy," she says. "Or maybe not crazy. Just tiny. Helpless. Those dreams- they felt like they were made of something so much bigger than just myself."

"They were so vivid when I was having them," Gene starts again. "But when I woke up it felt like they were all in shadow."

"Like you couldn't remember them, like most dreams, even for only a few minutes after waking."

"Exactly."

Renée takes a deep breath. "It's no coincidence," she says. "I wish so badly to remember more."

By now they've gone past the remaining shops and cafes and have to cross the street, making their way back down the other side of the canal.

Her hand accidentally brushes his as they walk, and she pulls away. A few seconds later her headache flares up again, and she finds herself letting more information tumble out of her mouth.

"1944." Her heartbeat quickens. She hopes there is something else, anything.

"That must have been the year," Gene says quietly. "In- in Belgium." His mouth forms around the word without thought.

"I used to live there. I moved less than a month ago."

"Where in Belgium did you come from?" They're both relieved to let the conversation turn, at least for a few moments.

"Bruges."

He'd ask why she left, why she'd picked Caen, but it seems intrusive. He's too polite, and wouldn't want to make her force a neat answer.

"My best friend lives here," she says by way of an explanation. "I'm finishing school and living at her apartment. She's an EMT."

"You said you were studying to be a nurse?"

"Yes."

"I'm pre-med."

Invisible threads pull their thoughts and words back to their dreams.

"Why did you choose it, Gene?"

It's the second time she's said his name, and it feels like a gift. Something she's been granted after years without, tasting it anew on her tongue.

"Medicine?"

Renée nods.

"Because I want to help people, and alleviate their suffering. My grandmother was a doctor, and I saw how much she was able to heal, how much good he did, and I want to do the same. What about you?"

"I…I read a lot as a child, and I lived in a house that was quite old. One day I found a medical textbook in a box in the attic that I guess belonged to the previous owners. I read it, and became fascinated. When I was able to choose my own courses at school, I gravitated towards physiology, biology, things like that. Teachers told me I had an aptitude for it." She pauses. "That's not to say I don't love it independently of that though. I think that nursing is vital and noble. It is difficult, but learning its practices, and preparing to be a nurse when I graduate, makes me feel like I will make a positive contribution to society. Just as you say, I want to heal others."

She's started to wander down a wide side-street that leads to the apartment building.

"I live down this way. Would you like to come up for some tea? Or coffee?" She cracks a small smile, and Gene gives a quiet laugh as he remembers leaving it at the café.

"If- it's that all right with you, sure." Augusta is in Toulon visiting her parents, and won't be back for a few days.

"Okay." She smiles more fully now, but her mouth is still closed. As they walk up the steps, Gene feels, by some miracle, the tiniest bit lighter.


	7. blank maps

vii.

They sit over cups of steaming Earl Grey and let the memories take their own time.

"I- It's coming back to me," she says. "Not all of it, but some. It was B-Bastogne, I think. You were an American medic."

He absorbs the information, for what future use he doesn't know. "And, I remember…the day the church was bombed. I couldn't find you."

"That must have been when I…died?" The sentence is so foreign and so strange that an almost-laugh becomes strangled in her throat. "I don't remember that. All I remember is tending to the men. They were so young, and in so much pain. Was that church the last stop for them, Gene?"

He nods. "Yes, I don't think we were able to evacuate."

She looks down at his hands as he continues, the tips of his fingers resting transiently on the wooden table.

"After that night, I did what I knew was needed. Tending to the men…my…my friends," he says, shaking his head as the words pour out. "So many of them were wounded in those woods. But pushing onward was the only option."

She swallows hard. "I don't remember talking with you very much. But I'm sure that it happened. I'm sure there's so much more than what we can remember now."

Gene sees her sitting there, blonde hair swept around her face in a messy bun, her wool sweater and her pink cheeks, and feels his heart swell. Renée is unconsciously biting her lip, staring at her hands now.

"I'm so grateful to know that I've chosen my career without such terrible necessity" she says. "It is confirming in me that decision. You and I knew we had a duty to stay in Bastogne, and to help. I knew where my place was. But I didn't have the choices then that I do now."

He takes his hands in hers. They're warm and covered in tiny lines, pressed into her palms. Fingers interlocked, the sheer connection is such a relief she could cry. And suddenly they're standing up, embracing, arms around each other, her cheek resting against his shoulder. They both think that if maybe if they stay like this long enough the memories will all come back.

After what seems like hours they move to sit on the couch in the living room and try and piece together the remainder of what they have dreamt and what they know. It's not much, but Gene and Renée pray they will be more. And there will be.

That night they fall asleep after talking about home, their nightmares during the waking hours. His arms wrapped around her, their breaths rise and fall together as they protect each other against what dreams they hope won't visit them again, at least without such vicious urgency. It would be immeasurably good to see each other in these dreams without pain, to gain a fuller picture of the lives they once led. Maybe, they hope, it will happen the next day, or sometime in the future.

In the morning Renée is still tucked in his embrace, and wakes him with a kiss on the forehead, a stroke of her thumb on his cheek. Every word they speak to each other from now on breathes a silent but ardent thank you. Two lost souls crossing paths again and finding each other, giving the gift of a tomorrow that will never be taken for granted.


End file.
